


Across Armoured Thighs

by Salmon_Pink



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens (2015)
Genre: BDSM, F/M, Spanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 06:47:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5575363
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_Pink/pseuds/Salmon_Pink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Doling out punishment is a part of Phasma's duty. With Ren, she's learned a very specific brand of discipline is required.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Across Armoured Thighs

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for _The Force Awakens_. Written for [All Bingo](http://allbingo.dreamwidth.org/), prompt "punishment", and for [The Force Awakens Kink](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org), [prompt](https://tfa-kink.dreamwidth.org/1082.html?thread=92730#cmt92730) "Kylo/Any, spanking, someone just needs to beat this guy's ass raw".

“That console was expensive,” Phasma informs him bluntly, “and also important to operations in the eighth sector.”

She watches Kylo Ren’s hands ball into fists, the leather of his gloves creaking slightly in the stretching silence of the room. “You believe the efficiency of your operating systems concerns me?” 

“I believe it _should_ ,” she counters. These explosions of rage from him have become more frequent of late, and she’s grown to recognise the particular brand of anxiousness in her troops each time they have to report on finding heavy equipment destroyed by lightsaber gouges, the metal left twisted and scorched and ruined.

The mask makes him seem cold, but she can read the white-hot anger in his eyes through it just by the angle at which he holds his head. Likewise, he can read her through all of her armour, so Phasma knows he can feel the steel in her gaze, can sense the unimpressed arch of her eyebrow.

There’s a fine tremor in Ren’s shoulders. She won’t have to push him far tonight, he’s already wavering at that edge.

“You must be reprimanded for your outburst,” she says, and his body tenses in anticipation for the familiar tone of her voice, low and deadly and commanding.

Some nights he will argue, and she will have to push harder at his walls to have them crumbling the way they both wish. Some nights he will simply send her away, and the tantrums will come thicker and more violent until he relents and accepts her presence.

Tonight Ren stands stock still, and she can hear the wet sound of his swallow through the altered voice of the mask.

“You will strip for me,” she orders him, and Phasma already knows he will obey without question.

The mask is set down heavily, and he is pale beneath it, his eyes wide and wary in a way she knows means he is already at his limit. His fingers tremble as they unclasp his belt, jerky movements giving away his eagerness as he forces himself not to hurry, not to show her how badly he _wants_. 

That pride of his will be Ren’s undoing.

Phasma watches, pointedly apathetic, as his gloves and boots and robes are dropped to the floor. He’s already half-hard by the time he is naked, and she lets him stand like that, discomfited and exposed and waiting, simply to see the way his jaw clenches, the way his cock rises further.

He likes her to be aloof. He _needs_ it. And Phasma can admit that she enjoys the control such acts bring her.

Ren inhales sharply when she takes a step forward, and he looks younger than he is in these moments, stubbornly fighting to keep his body from swaying towards her. 

She grips his chin carelessly, her armoured glove tight against his skin. “You do not have to destroy our base to get my attention,” she intones, cold and quiet, and for the first time his gaze flickers to the floor. “You have only to ask.”

They both know he won’t, though. That damn pride again, forcing him to hold his emotions in check until they explode out of him like a supernova. And when that happens, Phasma is there to wring those emotions from him, to give him what he needs to release them in a more pleasing manner.

“You will accept your punishment?” she prompts, and Ren swallows again, their faces close enough that she imagines she can feel the heat of his breath through her helmet’s filter.

His nod is small and tight and with an undercurrent of anger; he resents that he needs this from her, even as he _craves_ it.

Phasma moves across the room, feeling him watch her as she sits at the edge of his bed. She does not remove her armour, and his pupils expand at the realisation that he will not be allowed her naked skin tonight. 

He does not deserve it. The console truly was expensive, and sector eight will be running at half capacity for several days.

“Across my lap,” she says coolly. “Facedown.”

He hesitates. She has done a great many things to his body, has brought him both pleasure and pain, but this is a first. She can tell by Ren’s face that he already understands her intentions, colour rising in blotches across his chest and throat.

Phasma has always taken a wicked delight in testing his boundaries. Tonight he is struggling so much with his demons that there is no question of him denying himself her touch.

He is long and lean when he moves, more obviously so without his cloak, and his body is made of sharp angles. She keeps her hands from his skin when he lowers himself across her lap, although there is an urge within her to manhandle him into place. They both enjoy that, her exerting her physical strength over him, but tonight she wishes to remain more clinical.

He looks awkward once he is settled, too gangly, too tall. It is at moments like this when she is most fond of him.

Phasma presses her gloved palm to his ass, feeling the hitch of his breathing. The swell there is all muscle; there is very little fat on his body. “Ask for it,” she murmurs, and her helmet makes the words sound more like a hiss.

She can tell Ren is working to keep his breathing steady, but his body betrays him, sweat already forming between his shoulder blades. She waits - she always waits for those words before she begins.

Finally, Ren’s head drops forward. “ _Punish_ me,” he whispers, and goosebumps rise on her skin beneath her armour.

He is not the only way who anticipates and desires this.

Her hand rises, and he tenses all over. Phasma is aware that she should warm the skin with more gentle slaps first, but she is also aware that he does not have the patience for that. She will apply bacta as necessary afterwards, and in the meantime her palm falls heavily against his flesh.

Ren grunts as her hand connects, the sound of her glove against his skin wonderfully obscene. She raises her arm again, brings it back down. She’s not hitting him as hard as she could, but it’s still enough to make his hips twitch against her.

She watches the tips of his ears turn pink with a sense of satisfaction.

Phasma begins to spank him with a steady rhythm, and slowly his bitten-off moans begin to fill the room. He’s braced on his elbows, but soon he presses his forehead to the plain black sheets. His ass begins to colour, and without her glove she knows she’d feel the heat there in the slow-forming bruises. The thick material across her palm must surely make the strikes feel more impersonal to him, and on her next swing she curves her fingers slightly so the metal along them stings at his flesh.

Ren cries out at that, and Phasma smiles beneath her mask.

His feet brace against the mattress, toes pushing down as he tries to get leverage to grind against her. She retaliates by angling each smack lower across his ass, and the surprise of it drags a desperate sound from him. His back is slick with sweat now, and he’s gasping, rubbing himself down on her as much as he’s able.

The smooth and solid armour across her thighs must be uncomfortable for him when his cock moves across it. _Good_ , she thinks.

“Do you enjoy this?” she asks, voice raised to be heard over the sound of her hand and his needy moans.

“No,” he replies instantly, and her hand freezes in the air above him. He is shaking, but it grows more frantic when he realises that she has stopped, that she will not tolerate his lies. “Yes!” he corrects himself, voice rough and as passionate as she’s ever heard him. “Yes, I enjoy it.”

She hits him harder for that, for the lie, for the truth, and he groans so earnestly for her.

“Are you leaking all over yourself?” she accuses. Her arm is beginning to ache, and she relishes the burn of it. “Are you getting my armour wet with how much you _want_ this?”

He nods quickly. “Yes, yes.” He sounds wrecked, broken open. Phasma is the only one who can coax that voice from him.

She watches the desperate shift of Ren’s hips, the globes of his ass dimpling as he clenches up on every thrust. Next time she does this to him, she already knows she will twist a plug into his ass first, so she can watch him tighten up around it with each smack of her palm.

She imagines the noises he’ll make will be delicious.

Phasma spanks him high across the back of his thighs. “Beg for your punishment, _Ben_ ,” she jeers, and he wails for her so gorgeously. Whole body bucking as his hips snap forward, his fingernails scratching at the bed.

She’s never heard a more lovely sound than his hoarse, “Please, please, please!”

He’s keening, twisting across her lap, and she can tell when he comes by the way his entire body goes rigid for a long beat. She does not relent, spanking him through it, and even when he melts against her, spent and gasping, she keeps striking him. She knows every slap of her hand jolts his overly-sensitive cock across her lap, and it’s only when his breathing devolves into hurt hiccupping noises that she finally stops, rubbing her hand down against his reddened skin.

There’s sweat forming beneath her uniform, heat radiating out from her chest. She is undeniably turned-on by his surrender, she always has been. But tonight is about his punishment, and to give her pleasure would only be a reward to him.

Instead she pushes at his hip, and when Ren turns to look at her over his shoulder she gets to see the effect she has had on him. His lower lip is swollen, teeth marks dug into the flesh. His skin is damp and pink, and his eyes are glazed over. 

He’s quite beautiful like this.

“You have dirtied my armour,” she sneers. “On your knees - you will lick me clean.”

Ren’s movements are sluggish, no sign of protest, no hint of that damn _pride_ on his face.

Phasma knows there is no clearer sign that the punishment was a success.


End file.
